


Can I Be Close To You

by bella_my_clarke



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Bellarke, Drinking, F/M, Party, Teacher!Bellamy, artist!Clarke, drunk!bellamy, specifically the one where he can't stop cuddling and doting on clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-04 21:18:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11563521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bella_my_clarke/pseuds/bella_my_clarke
Summary: The important thing to know about drunk Bellamy was there could be one of several kinds: like Loud Drunk Bellamy, who yelled about how he liked Clarke’s hair or thought Zeus was just a player, or Grumpy Drunk Bellamy, who was the equivalent of a pouty four-year-old but (unfortunately) hot on top of the cute, or Thoughtful Drunk Bellamy, who would go on for ages about history and racism and deep topics even if no one was even around to listen. She could swear he was a different kind almost every time he got drunk, and she got drunk with him a /lot/.Today, though, it was clear Bellamy had slipped into what could be her favorite drunk mode: Soft Drunk. Or at least, the slightly glazed happy expression he wore and the way his entire face brightened when he saw her seemed to suggest that.--Or: Bellamy gets drunk, Bellamy gets cuddly, and Clarke gets shook





	Can I Be Close To You

**Author's Note:**

> alternate summary: tate attempts to see how many times she can use the word 'soft' without getting banned. also, how many times bellamy can nuzzle clarke and/or stroke her face
> 
> tw for like twelve references to the finale forgive me i started this when it came out and i'm still shook

Clarke arrived late to the party, which was her first mistake. She usually came at the same time as Bellamy, so they could get drunk together or at least keep track of each other as they skirted around the crowds, but she’d still been putting on makeup and told him to just go on ahead of her and she’d catch up.

            Her second mistake was wearing the sweater he always got fond over—which technically happened _before_ she arrived late to the party, but she didn’t realize it was a mistake until she struggled through the crowds, trying to find either a person or drink she recognized, and found Bellamy drunk on the couch.

            The important thing to know about drunk Bellamy was there could be one of several kinds: like Loud Drunk Bellamy, who yelled about how he liked Clarke’s hair or thought Zeus was just a player, or Grumpy Drunk Bellamy, who was the equivalent of a pouty four-year-old but (unfortunately) hot on top of the cute, or Thoughtful Drunk Bellamy, who would go on for ages about history and racism and deep topics even if no one was even around to listen. She could swear he was a different kind almost every time he got drunk, and she got drunk with him a _lot_.

            (Just to hang out as platonic pals, of course. Not so she could try to drown the urge to kiss him senseless while simultaneously getting quality time with him. Obviously not.)

            Today, though, it was clear Bellamy had slipped into what could be her favorite drunk mode: Soft Drunk. Or at least, the slightly glazed happy expression he wore and the way his entire face brightened when he saw her seemed to suggest that.

            “Clarke,” he sighed, a little slurred, and patted the spot next to him. She rolled her eyes and obliged, curling up beside to him with the excuse that he was drunk and that meant he would be needy. (Just him. Not her. Obviously.) He made a happy little noise in response and slipped his arm around her waist to pull her closer, nuzzling his nose against her hair.

            “You started drinking without me then, huh?” she asked, desperately trying to keep her voice casual as he rested his lips lazily against her temple.

            He huffed in a slightly childish way. “I can only wait so long before everyone gets too annoying to handle sober. That’s why I like you,” he added, nuzzling her again and beginning to run his hand up and down her arm. “You’re not everyone. You’re _Clarke._ I never get tired of you, because you’re my favorite.”

            “Good to know, Bell,” she said, patting his chest and definitely ignoring how his hand stuttered in its path over her arm as she did so.

            “I also like your sweater,” he continued, ducking his head to nuzzle the hem of it with his nose and accidentally brushing her neck in the process. (Seriously, what was it with him and nuzzling? Was he _trying_ to kill her?) “It’s so soft. Like you. I like you a lot, Clarke.”

            She laughed a little. “You told me that already.”

            He grumbled and pulled away a little to look at her. “No, the first time I just said I liked you. But I like you _a lot._ ” He paused, and then reached out to brush the back of his hand across her temple and then trace his thumb down her cheekbone to brush a loose lock of hair. “So much.”

            The words felt a little like a confession, and Clarke felt squeezed suddenly, like she needed to get out or something would happen, something Bellamy would regret once he wasn’t drunk, but she couldn’t move. His gaze was too warm on hers, too honest, and she found herself doing nothing but staring at him as he brushed back her hair over and over again, so close she could catch just a taste of the lingering alcohol on his breath.

            “You’re so beautiful, Clarke,” he said absently, like he was thinking aloud. “I always think maybe I’ll get used to it, but I don’t think I ever will. You’re _too_ beautiful.”

            “It’s the sweater, right?” Clarke teased, but she choked a little on it. (Could you actually die from the drunk affections of your platonic best friend who you were also kind of in love with? Was that a thing?)

            He shook his head slowly, eyebrows furrowing in that cute way that made her want to trace them. “No. It’s you, Clarke. It’s always you. Your nose, your eyes, your hair, your brain...your heart.” He dropped his hand to her sternum, so gently Clarke might not have felt it if she weren’t so in tune with every touch between them. She prayed he wouldn’t be able to detect the way her heart was stutter-stepping all over the place.

            “Well,” she said with a small smile, placing her hand over his to stop him from continuing, “I think you’re beautiful, too, Bellamy. Heart and all.” Then, worried he’d try to respond again, she pulled his hand off her chest and laced their fingers together, dropping them into her lap.

            Bellamy ran his thumb over the back of her palm and she glanced up at him, but he wasn’t looking at her—no, he was looking at their intertwined hands and _beaming_ like she’d just given him the entire world. The sight made her heart ache with love for him, and longing—longing to kiss him, to hold him, to wake up beside him every day and whisper that all she wanted was for him to be hers.

            It was a longing that could only be just that – an ache for something out of reach – and if it were not for Bellamy’s hand in hers and his body curled up beside her and the knowledge he would always be her person anyway, the reminder might’ve made her ache even more.

            Once it was clear it was time to go, Clarke finally untucked herself from Bellamy and pulled him to his feet—he was still rather tipsy, though not completely uncoordinated, so she kept one of his arms looped around her shoulders. They started for the entrance in a less-than-graceful tangle of limbs and Raven, who had been telling everyone but Luna to get out, ran over to open the door.

            “You sober enough to drive?” she asked, somewhere between concerned and amused. “I can call an Uber, if you need.”

            “Actually, I didn’t drink at all,” she said, adjusting her grip on Bellamy’s wrist when he leaned over her.

            Raven laughed a little at that and Clarke paused, frowning. “I’m not actually kidding, you know. I’m not drunk at all, honest.”

            She just gave Clarke one of her famous eyebrow-raised looks. “Really? Because you seemed pretty drunk on Bellamy’s company.”

            At that, Clarke felt a humiliating flush heat her face and neck, not to mention her traitorous heart nearly breaking through her ribcage. She couldn’t think of a dignified response, especially one Raven wouldn’t laugh at for its transparency, so she just flipped her off and stomped off before Bellamy could process the statement.

            Clarke half-expected Bellamy’s drunk-induced softness to dissipate as the party died down and they went home, but it never wavered—not even in the car, when he insisted on playing with her free hand while she drove. He also seemed unable to stop leaning over her, so much so he nearly tipped them both over when she was fiddling with the key to their apartment, and she couldn’t help but laugh a little because when she’d moved in with him a few years back she’d expected a lot of things, but never _this_. Not his constant physicality and dumb jokes and messy hair in the morning and staying up late to watch old documentaries.

            (In effect, she never thought she’d fall in love with him, but, well. Here she was. And maybe it was wrong, but she didn’t regret a single moment of it.)

            The first thing she did once they were inside was make Bellamy drink some water and down a couple of Ibuprofen, because she suspected his hangover would be a sight to see in the morning. Then she helped him peel off his jacket and guided him to his own room to get some rest before the headache and nausea kicked in.

            Unfortunately, Bellamy had put away most of his blankets because the weather had been rising and he overheated easily, but she knew from experience a drunk Bellamy without a blanket wasn’t a very fun person to deal with, so once he had laid down she told him, “I’ll go grab a blanket from the closet for you to cuddle with.”

            Before she could get more than a few steps away, though, he reached for her wrist, whining petulantly. “No blanket,” he drawled, the lisp now more from sleepiness than alcohol, “I got you for that.”

            Clarke’s heart effectively leaped in her chest, which was stupid considering it didn’t mean anything and he was just drunk and they’d been forced to share a bed before anyway, but alas. Her heart had a terrible track of abandoning all real logic when Bellamy was involved. “Oh? I’m your blanket now?”

            “No, you’re my _Clarke_ ,” he said, too soft to be real. “Now come here, I’m gonna fall asleep.”

            “What, you want me to fall asleep in my sweater and leggings?” she asked even as she slid onto the bed beside him, struggling to fight off her smile.

            “I like this sweater, so yes,” he said, grinning, pulling her towards him so he could drape an arm around her waist while she rested on his chest.

            “I thought you liked _me_ , not just the sweater,” she said, lifting her head to give him a pointed look.

            He gave the look right back, except with that half-smirk that always made her legs a little weak. “Am I not allowed to have both?”

            She huffed into his chest grumpily, muttering something about giving him an ultimatum soon, and he laughed, and the noise was so natural and _sober_ -sounding that Clarke felt her heart stop for a moment. This didn’t feel like it should’ve—like a needy drunk cuddling with his best friend. This felt...well. It felt the way she wanted it to feel, the way it did so often for just little moments before she was thrown back into the reality that they were just friends, just roommates.

            Which sucked, because again, he was _drunk_ , and would probably apologize for the whole ordeal in the morning, and she’d have to pretend she was nothing but amused with his antics, and yet again she’d be left with nothing but that yearning for _more_.

            Then Bellamy ran his hand up and down her back soothingly, like he knew something was wrong, and she let the feeling subside for now. Maybe she couldn’t kiss him until she was dizzy, or trace the lines of his face whenever she wanted, but she still had _this_. She still had him.

 

Bellamy was awake when she first opened her eyes, which wasn’t much of a surprise, even with a hangover—Bellamy was usually halfway through making breakfast before she got up.

            “Ow,” he grumbled, pressing a hand against his forehead as if it would make the headache magically disappear.

            “Poor baby,” she teased, shifting slightly off his chest (with a little regret) to prop herself on her elbows. “Being drunk’s not as fun at the end, huh?”

            “At least it’s a shared conflict when both of us get drunk,” he said, giving her a look. “But _somebody_ had to perfect her makeup just to not interact with anyone.”

            “Hey, I was interacting with _you_ the whole time, don’t pin that on me. And since Miller wasn’t there and it was Raven’s house, you needed a designated driver.”

            He looked ready to argue, then seemed to decide it wasn’t worth it and said instead, “Fair. That means we’ll have to grab my car sometime today, though.” Then he paused, searching her face with just as much softness as he’d shown last night. “Thank you, though, really. For taking me home.”

            Clarke managed to roll her eyes around the growing ache in her chest. “We live together, Bellamy, it’s not like it was out of my way.”

            “Still.” He looked at her for much too long, and Clarke felt overtly aware of how close they were, before he blessedly ruined the moment by pulling back with a wince. “Gods of Olympus, why do you let me near alcohol?”

            Clarke laughed, relieved to have the tension lift. “Come on, you big baby, I’ll find you something.”

            Bellamy was still nursing the headache and nausea when he had to leave—not for official work, since it was summer and somehow she’d convinced him not to teach summer classes. But some of the teachers were getting together to celebrate a school record of AP test passers (thanks to Bellamy, Clarke thought smugly) and he never turned down the chance for free food.

            “You know, you could still come with me,” Bellamy said as he shrugged on a jacket, giving her a terrible attempt at a wink.

            “It’s a teacher party, and I’m not a teacher, so no, I can’t,” she said, rolling her eyes a little.

            She expected that to be the end of it, but Bellamy held her gaze. “You could come as a plus one.”

            Clarke blinked. “A...what?”

            “A plus one,” Bellamy said, cool as ever, even though Clarke was kind of dying inside. “You know. The easiest way to sneak someone into things they’re not technically invited to?”

            She hesitated. It would be stupid to go along, especially when it would only really be to fill her pathetic desire to be with him all the time, but knowing that didn’t exactly _help_. Especially when he’d called her a _plus one_ , like he was asking her out.

            But she also did really have work to do, and knowing Bellamy’s stamina in social situations, he wouldn’t be long anyway. So she told him, “Sounds fun, but I have some projects due soon, so, uh...I’ll just see you in a while?”

            She pointedly ignored the way he sighed in disappointment, and the way her stupid heart was flopping over at the sight. “Okay, that’s fine. Good luck with the book.” He made a move as if to go, but hesitated, running his hands through his hair. “You know I like spending time with you, right? Just you?”

            That seemed a bit out of left field, but Clarke nodded, frowning slightly. “Of course I do. Being roommates would suck if you didn’t.”

            “I don’t mean like that. Well—okay, I do, partially. But I like hanging out with _you_. Just...you know. Us.”

            Clarke furrowed her eyebrows, now aggressively confused. “It seems like you’re running in circles here, Bellamy.”

            He sighed again, a little more humorous this time. “When do I do anything else?” Then, seeming to decide explaining himself wouldn’t do much good, he pulled her into a quick side hug and, after a pause, kissed her cheek. “See you later, yeah?”

            “See you later.”

 

Clarke still hadn’t figured out Bellamy’s weird behavior before he got home, which also meant she didn’t any of the pages for the book she was illustrating done, just one concept. It was a problem, since she had seven pages to do in seven days—but that seemed to matter less, when Bellamy walked in.

            It wasn’t like he looked much different from when he left—as she predicted, it had only been a couple hours. But his hair had gotten a bit ruffled, presumably from his tendency to run his hands through it when he got nervous, and he looked a little more relaxed than he had before, and the smile he gave her was more like a beam, and yeah. Okay. Drawing could definitely wait.

            “You make it out alive?” she asked, setting her work on the coffee table and scooting over a little so he could sit on the couch next to her.

            “Miraculously, considering Echo tagged along with Roan just to hit on me for half the time.”

            Clarke pushed down a wave of irrational jealousy. Bellamy didn’t even _like_ Echo, it wasn’t like something would happen. But she would’ve really liked to be Bellamy’s plus one, just out of spite. “Huh. How’d that end up?”

            “I stuck in large groups until she lost interest, then got bored an hour later and went home myself.”

            She frowned. “Sounds like it sucked then.”

            “It wasn’t all awful; Miller tagged along with Monty, and we all talked for a while.” His eyes flicked to hers, almost involuntarily, before he flopped his head back with a dramatic sigh. “But you know, it _would’ve_ been better if you had come.”

            Pointedly ignoring her heart’s elated jumping, Clarke shifted closer to poke him and teased, “You know we can’t do everything together, right?”

            He grumbled and grabbed her hand briefly. “I beg to differ.” Then he let go and caught her gaze instead, softly. “I do, you know. Want to.”

            There was something about the way he was looking at her, like he was trying to give her something; it made her breath catch. “Want to what?”

            For a moment, he just watched her, lifting his head from the couch in almost slow-motion, before swallowing and reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Do everything with you.”

            Without meaning to, Clarke’s eyes fluttered shut at his words before opening to watch, transfixed, as he ran his fingers over her cheek again and cupped her cheek with such gentleness it stunned her.

            (He was _always_ gentle, which should’ve made her used to it by now, but that was precisely why she never would—because no one was ever so gentle all the time, not with her, and yet every time he touched her it was like a question and a promise and a declaration all at once.)

            Clarke didn’t know what to do about this whole situation, so she tried for humor. “I thought you said there was no alcohol at the teacher party?”

            Bellamy frowned, the soft expression giving way just barely to confusion. “There wasn’t. Hence the lack of a headache. And I don’t believe in getting drunk two days in a row anyway.”

            “Then why are you....” Clarke trailed off, feeling her cheeks flush beneath his hand. She’d said too much.

            Bellamy stared at her for a moment, then understanding dawned in his eyes and his thumb stopped its ministrations. “Is it—I’ll stop, if you want me to.”

            She wondered for a moment if she _should_ tell him to stop, but honestly? Right now, she couldn’t care about what she should or shouldn’t do. All she cared about was what she wanted, and that was _this_. Him, with her. “No,” she whispered, holding his gaze and willing her sincerity to come through. “I don’t want you to stop.”

            For a long moment, Bellamy just looked over her face, drinking in her words and her expression; then something must have clicked, because the corners of his mouth curved slightly upwards and he gave her a tiny nod. “Okay, Clarke.”

            And then he just...held her, brushing back her hair and tracing her cheekbones and running a soothing hand up and down her neck. It wasn’t doing everything, certainly, not yet, but it felt like it to Clarke. Or, at least, like it was enough for now.

 

When they finally got back up, life went back to normal, except now Clarke was noticing what “normal” between her and Bellamy really was—a dropped kiss on her head as he reached for cups; her hand absently finding his across the table; little notes taped to the fridge of food they were out of or things they wanted to do together. They were everything she’d always wanted them to be, she realized; she’d just never _noticed_.

            Well, okay, besides kissing, but the more Clarke connected the dots and discovered Soft Drunk Bellamy was just normal Bellamy without reservations, the more she began thinking that could be part of the equation, too.

            So when they settled onto the couch to watch a movie, Clarke cuddled even closer to Bellamy than usual, tucking her legs against his thighs and loosely draping an arm across his stomach to rest on his hip under the jacket. It wasn’t much of a position to pay attention to the show, what with her body turned away from the screen and her cheek against his collarbone, but Bellamy didn’t seem to mind. He just wrapped his arms around her, tangling his fingers together at her waist, and rested his chin on her head.

            He dropped a kiss to her hair after a moment, and she sighed contentedly, drawing closer. “You’re my favorite, Bellamy, you know that?” she murmured, half muffled against his skin.

            “Is that so?” he said, the smile evident in his voice. “Raven will be heartbroken.”

            Clarke huffed a little. “Raven’s my favorite _friend_ , yes, but you’re...you’re my _Bellamy._ ”

            She heard a soft intake of breath and cautiously lifted her head to meet his gaze; he was smiling at her in that small way he always did when she complimented him—awed, and just a little disbelieving. Except now, there was something else coloring his dark eyes, something soft and longing.

            “I’m yours, huh?” he murmured.

            She nodded, struggling to keep her smile from completely covering her face. “Yeah. And I’m yours.”

            Bellamy grinned then, full and unrestrained, and leaned in to press his mouth to hers. She gasped a little, even though she was mostly expecting it, and pressed her hand against his hip, shifting to be more comfortably in his lap as he ran his hands up and down her back—softly, always softly. He was so gentle it was going to drive her mad.

            “Bellamy,” she murmured, unable to form coherent thoughts.

            He just smiled, kissing her cheek before ducking away for a moment to look at her. His eyes lingered on her sweater, which she’d been too lazy to change out of from the day before.

            “I still hate you for wearing this, you know,” he said, nudging the collar with his nose before pressing the barest of kisses there.

            “No you don’t,” she said, trying to sound teasing but coming off as breathy instead. “You love my sweater. You said so.”

            “Nah,” he murmured, slowly finding his way back to her mouth and kissing her like he could do it forever. She understood the feeling. “I love _you_.”

            Clarke froze for a moment, and of course Bellamy noticed, pulling away immediately to watch her expression. “Hey, you okay?” he murmured, pushing away her hair momentarily; when she only stared at him, he swallowed hard and dropped his hands to his side. “It’s fine, if you don’t want to, Clarke, or if you don’t...you know. I don’t want to push you.”

            That got her moving. “Bell,” she said, soft as she could manage. She reached for his hands and placed them at her waist. “I want to. I want _you_. I just—” She couldn’t help but smile then, at the way his face slowly brightened with hope again— “You surprised me, a little. Not that I didn’t think that—I mean, it was just nice. To hear you say it.”

            Bellamy nodded, beaming, and pulled her towards him, enough of a jerk that she had to catch herself on his shoulders. “It would be nice, to hear that. You know, hypothetically.”

            She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t keep the smile off her face. “What happened to not pushing me?”

            “Hey, that was a very soft, loving nudge,” he protested, then sobered a little. “I meant it, though, Clarke. If you’re not ready, or you don’t mean it, you don’t have to say it. Promise.”

            She pecked his mouth quickly, just to keep him from talking anymore. “Bellamy, I’ve been in love with you since forever. You saying it first doesn’t change anything for me. Okay?”

            He didn’t even hesitate this time. “Okay.” And then they were kissing again, and Clarke wondered how she ever imagined a universe where this wasn’t part of her relationship with Bellamy. It was _awesome._

            It was very possible she wanted to do everything with him, too.

            After who knows how long, they fell back into just cuddling, Clarke tucked in his lap with her arms curled inside his jacket under the pretense of warmth (though she knew she didn’t really need an excuse). Bellamy kept his hand on the small of her back under the sweater, sometimes stroking the skin and sometimes just resting against it; the movie they’d forgotten about was rolling the credits now, and Clarke became aware it was getting dark outside.

            “You know,” she mumbled into his neck, “your bed’s a lot comfier if you wanted to cuddle.”

            He laughed a little. “Did I tire you out already?”

            She lifted her head and gave him a challenging grin. “Who said anything about that?”

 

A week later, Raven threw an impromptu get-together at her house—she claimed it was just to have a party exclusively for their friends, especially since Murphy was in town for once, but Clarke knew the timing aligned just a little too well with her announcement about her and Bellamy. Raven just wanted to see them drunk together.

            Not that _she_ was complaining, but Bellamy, somehow, was.

            “She’s already seen us act couple-y, she didn’t have to throw a _party_ ,” he grumbled over the pot of macaroni he was making.

            She wrapped her arms around his waist to press a kiss to his shoulder blade. “Are you actually vying for less opportunity to act like a couple?”

            “I would never,” he said, feigning indignation and turning his head back to look at her. “I’m just vying for more opportunity to act like a couple _alone_.”

            “Oh come on, give them this,” she said, nuzzling into him a little. “They’ve been waiting on us for longer than we have.” He gave her a look and she amended, “Okay, almost as long. They definitely saw the mutual part a lot faster.”

            “Fair,” he said, leaning down to kiss her, and she sighed, curling a hand into his hair as he twisted around for a better angle before pulling away—way too soon, in her opinion. “But I think I’m enjoying the benefits way more than they are.”

            “Oh, is that true?” she hummed, lifting onto her toes a little to wrap an arm around his neck.

            “I mean, they just get to see us hold hands, and I get to hold all of you,” he grinned, brushing his nose against hers. “And look at you whenever I want, and kiss you, and tell you how pretty you are, and....”

            Clarke laughed, so happy she could hardly stand it. “You sound a little drunk, Bellamy,” she teased.

            “Only on your company,” he promised with a smirk.

            This kiss was a little more of teeth-smacking, and the angle was a little weird with Bellamy trying to avoid burning them on the macaroni, but Clarke honestly couldn’t find it in her to care. She was kissing the person she loved most in the world, and could do so as much as she wanted for the foreseeable future, awkward kisses and all. She could do _everything_ with him.

            Well, okay, maybe not everything. But Bellamy was _her_ everything, so really, she was already halfway there.

**Author's Note:**

> yell ur thoughts at me yeh?
> 
> (anyone see the lil sea mechanic bit if so ily)
> 
> (also lbr the reason bellarke hasn't gotten that drink yet is because those two drunk together couldn't not end in touching, cuddling, and/or making out)
> 
> ~come yell at me on tumblr @sherlockvowsontheriverstyx~


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